


To market, to market...

by buckybarrow



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Hurt, M/M, Violence, dying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-20
Updated: 2015-01-20
Packaged: 2018-03-08 08:51:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3203222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buckybarrow/pseuds/buckybarrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is a show, just a show, a grand drama to be played out and talked over for the next ball to come. Did you see the magister die in the square? Oh what a spectacle, how his lover wept beautifully, his tears were like jewels on that handsome face, diamonds and rubies against a porcelain canvas.<br/>Ionas is sick at the thought.<br/>That's all they will be to them, not a magister, not the Inquisitor, just a song, a pretty story, a tale of star crossed lovers to make girls swoon for the romance of it.<br/>There is no romance in trying to keep your lover's insides from spilling out all over the pavement.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To market, to market...

"Stop it, just stop, you're going to be fine," Ionas says, he's shaking as he tries to put pressure on the wound, but his hands are stiff, his fingers burned and brittled, threatening to crumble like charcoal, they betray him. He can hardly see his love through the tears, though he doesn't feel his own wounds.  
Dorian laughs and it makes the blood come faster, the sound breaks away to a cry of agony. He's in pain, oh Maker help him, he's in pain and shaking harder than his Inquisitor as he bleeds out all over his fine white clothes.  
The flow is quickly changing them crimson, oh, why does he always have to wear white?  
"You really must stop telling yourself these half truths, Amatus, it only sets you up for disappointment,"  
Ionas didn't see where it came from, one minute they were fine, strolling through Val Royeaux's High Market, talking and laughing, the next there had been blood. Too much blood. Why was the so much? The knife was small but sharp, meant for splitting bodies and spilling innards, and in the blink of an eye Dorian was suddenly splattered all over the pavement.  
But he can fix this. He can save himself, he is just being stubborn, trying to milk a moment for drama.  
He is just being Dorian, and Ionas hates him for it.  
He takes fists of his lover's robes and shakes him like he always does, like he did the day they met.  
'Fix this!' He'd shouted then out of fear for himself, desperate to be back in time, "Heal yourself, dammit!" He shouts now, not caring a whit for himself and desperate only to save the thing he loves most. "Save yourself!"  
"I can't," Dorian says tenderly, apologetically, blood bubbling up and staining those soft full lips. Ionas doesn't understand. Why not?  
"Yes you can!" He cries, rage and sadness and pain and heartbreak bubbling inside of him and spilling out all over everything as sure as Dorian's blood.  
He is breaking apart again.  
Hasn't he been enough? Hasn't he been good to him? Why would he want to leave him like this? Why didn't he go when it was easier? Why did he have to make everything so complicated? But of course it's not, it isn't any of that, it a plain and simple truth that hurts more than anything. Dorian cannot save himself anymore than Ionas can. He is not a healer and, oh, damn him to the Void why couldn't he have been born a Mage?  
The magister's eyes spill over and flick down for a moment and the Inquisitor tries to ignore the twinge of the broken shaft buried into his abdomen-- no, he isn't a magister and he isn't the inquisitor, not now, not here. He is a man scared out of his wits trying to keep his lover alive, as if he could keep him from slipping away if he just held on tight enough... only he can't get a grip on him, his hands are shaking... the arrow is deep but the knife bit deeper.  
His heart is breaking as he pulls the Vint close and buries his face in his neck, stifling a sob as the shaft digs further into his gut, but he doesn't feel the pain, not that pain.  
The knife that split his lover lays grinning on the pavement beside them, slick with Tevinter blood.  
The gawkers have come to see the show. Lo and behold, the Vints are only human, they bleed red and long same as everyone else, and the Market stares on in horror. It is a show, just a show, a grand drama to be played out and talked over for the next ball to come. Did you see the magister die in the square? Oh what a spectacle, how his lover wept beautifully, his tears were like jewels on that handsome face, diamonds and rubies against a porcelain canvas.  
Ionas is sick at the thought.  
That's all they will be to them, not a magister, not the Inquisitor, just a song, a pretty story, a tale of star crossed lovers to make girls swoon for the romance of it.  
There is no romance in trying to keep your lover's insides from spilling out all over the pavement.  
Dorian reaches for him.  
His sun-kissed skin is pale, it's far too pale and flecked crimson, the Inquisitor is losing his grip on him, he tries to hold on tighter but cannot catch his breath. Ionas's heart is breaking. His lover's bloodied hand catches the back of his neck, he has no strength left but he holds him close and brushes a tear away with the pad of his thumb,  
"Shh," he murmurs, "Come now, you knew this was bound to happen sooner or later," he laughs again though this time it is shorter, grating, makes him clench his teeth and shut his eyes to the pain, "Only I thought it would be you... Better this way,"  
Don't take him, not this one, take anyone but him.  
"No." Ionas clenches his teeth, "No, you're going to live,"  
Then there's that slow smile that he fell in love with, the slight upturn of the corners of a mouth he had longed to taste for so long, one from which he's stolen a bank of a hundred hungry kisses and will never have a chance to repay.  
Ionas is getting dizzy. His world is spinning and darkening. The world is ending. It's coming to a crashing end and Corypheus didn't even have to lift a finger. All it took was a well placed arrow and a man with a dagger. Maker, Andraste, whoever, if you're out there, if you're listening, don't take him. Not this one, not this time. Let him live.  
"Not without you," Dorian says.


End file.
